Chapter XX: Prologue

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY AN UNKNOWN HAND, AND PROPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY
MRS MOUNTFORD, DRESSED LIKE AN OFFICER[1].

Bright beauties, who in awful circle sit,
And you, grave synod of the dreadful pit,
And you the upper-tire of pop-gun wit,

Pray ease me of my wonder, if you may;
Is all this crowd barely to see the play;
Or is't the poet's execution-day?

His breath is in your hands I will presume,
But I advise you to defer his doom,
Till you have got a better in his room;

And don't maliciously combine together,
As if in spite and spleen you were come hither;
For he has kept the pen, tho' lost the feather[2].

And, on my honour, ladies, I avow,
This play was writ in charity to you;
For such a dearth of wit who ever knew?

Sure 'tis a judgment on this sinful nation,
For the abuse of so great dispensation;
And, therefore, I resolve to change vocation.

For want of petticoat, I've put on buff,
To try what may be got by lying rough:
How think you, sirs? is it not well enough?

Of bully-critics I a troop would lead;
But, one replied,--Thank you, there's no such need,
I at Groom-Porter's, sir, can safer bleed.

Another, who the name of danger loaths,
Vow'd he would go, and swore me forty oaths,
But that his horses were in body-clothes.

A third cried,--Damn my blood, I'll be content
To push my fortune, if the parliament
Would but recal claret from banishment.

A fourth (and I have done) made this excuse--
I'd draw my sword in Ireland, sir, to chuse;
Had not their women gouty legs, and wore no shoes.

Well, I may march, thought I, and fight, and trudge,
But, of these blades, the devil a man will budge;
They there would fight, e'en just as here they judge.

Here they will pay for leave to find a fault;
But, when their honour calls, they can't be bought;
Honour in danger, blood, and wounds is sought.

Lost virtue, whither fled? or where's thy dwelling
Who can reveal? at least, 'tis past my telling,
Unless thou art embarked for Inniskilling.

On carrion-tits those sparks denounce their rage,
In boot of wisp and Leinster frise engage;
What would you do in such an equipage[3]?

The siege of Derry does you gallants threaten;
Not out of errant shame of being beaten,
As fear of wanting meat, or being eaten.

Were wit like honour, to be won by fighting,
How few just judges would there be of writing!
Then you would leave this villainous back-biting.

Your talents lie how to express your spite;
But, where is he who knows to praise aright?
You praise like cowards, but like critics fight.

Ladies, be wise, and wean these yearling calves,
Who, in your service too, are meer faux braves;
They judge, and write, and fight, and love--by halves.

Footnotes:
1. The humour of this intended prologue turns upon the unwillingness
displayed to attend King William into Ireland by many of the
nobility and gentry, who had taken arms at the Revolution. The
truth is, that, though invited to go as volunteers, they could not
but consider themselves as hostages, of whom William did not chuse
to lose sight, lest, while he was conquering Ireland, he might,
perchance, lose England, by means of the very men by whom he had
won it. The disbanding of the royal regiment had furnished a
subject for the satirical wit of Buckingham, at least, such a piece
is printed in his Miscellanies; and for that of Shadwell, in his
epilogue to Bury-fair. But Shadwell was now poet-laureat, and his
satire was privileged, like the wit of the ancient royal jester.
Our author was suspected of disaffection, and liable to
misconstruction: For which reason, probably, he declined this
sarcastic prologue, and substituted that which follows, the tone of
which is submissive, and conciliatory towards the government.
Contrary to custom, it was spoken by a woman.

2. In allusion to his being deprived of the office of poet laureat.

3. The Inniskilling horse, who behaved with great courage against King
James, joined Schomberg and King William's forces at Dundalk, in
1689, rather resembled a foreign frey-corps, than regular troops.
"They were followed by multitudes of their women; they were uncouth
in their appearance; they rode on small horses, called _Garrons_;
their pistols were not fixed in holsters, but dangled about their
persons, being slung to their sword-belts; they offered, with
spirit, to make always the forlorn of the army; but, upon the first
order they received, they cried out, 'They could thrive no longer,
since they were now put under orders.'--_Memoirs_, Vol. II. p. 133.
The allusion in the next verse is to the dreadful siege of
Londonderry, when the besieged suffered the last extremities of
famine. The account of this memorable leaguer, by the author just
quoted, is a most spirited piece of historical painting.